


Market Day

by Red_Admirable



Series: Of Time, and Other Mysteries [1]
Category: Kanata Kara | From Far Away
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9844217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Admirable/pseuds/Red_Admirable
Summary: A collection of short stories, dealing with some of the vaguer details of Izark's world and the time lapses in the original story.Because this mangaka's works pulled me through high-school, and made me really want to learn Japanese.





	1. Six Questions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eldritch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldritch/gifts), [Dreamicide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamicide/gifts).



> This fic and its relatives started life over at FFN, so if you've been lurking in the From Far Away/Kanata Kara archive there you've probably seen most of this, but I assure you they continue to grow and multiply. I've decided to--what do you call it? Cross-post? my collection of From Far Away fan-fictions in order to bolster visibility of this awesome, heroic, and painfully neglected fandom (and the majority of writers on this site have proven able to make me laugh and cry and yell and coo with their words--I'd really like to be a part of this community).  
> On another note, there's a fan month going on February-March '17 in the Kanatakara-fans Club over on DeviantArt. If you're a fan of the manga, please contribute to the fandom! This series (ALL Hikawa-sensei's series) needs more love!

 

 

"Izark!"

The warrior dropped the wood he had been carrying and whirled, fingers flying to the hilt of his long sword. His reaction, however, proved totally unnecessary.

Noriko skidded to a halt, just managing to avoid a collision with her guardian, who stared for a moment in bewilderment. She was holding the canteen he had given her; had she gone to fill it at the stream they had heard? Her breathing was heavy, as if she had been sprinting, but why? He could sense no enemies, nor anything that might frighten her. For that matter, the expression with which she now looked up at him was not fear. Even the slight shyness with which she usually addressed him was gone, replaced by brisk intensity.

She was tugging his sleeve, or rather, trying to drag him in the direction she had just come from.

"Here! Here!"

Ah, she'd picked up a new word. Until recently, she had only been able to name basic nouns and descriptors, like objects and colors. About half a month ago, however, she had discovered that all mighty word, that question that all parents worship and fear:

_Why?_

Before that, she had stumbled upon _what_ and _where_ when a passing farmer enquired as to their destination, and Izark had been obliged to teach her _when_ as they walked by a shop full of hour glasses and sundials. _How_ was acquired upon the purchase of an intricately wrapped kind of preserved vegetable. To complete the set, an inn keeper's wife had asked Noriko for her name, inadvertently supplying the girl with _who._

She hadn't stopped using those words since she learned them. While _who's_ weren't so common outside of towns, _whats_ and _wheres, whens_ and _hows_ were in constant supply.

There was no end to the _whys._

The tailor they visited for a change of clothing: _Izark, who?_

The different grains standing in fields they passed, the weather, a fence: _Izark, what?_

The country, the city, the area, the landscape, their destination: _Izark, where?_

Time in general, day as opposed to night: _Izark, when?_

The process of tacking up the horse, of oiling a sword, of mixing ink: _Izark, how?_

The things they bought. Any action, the benefit of which was not immediately obvious. The reason for all things under the heavens: _Izark, why?_

It didn't seem to matter if she understood his replies or not. At first, he had given one word answers or, if he could not, he had told her as best her could that she wouldn't grasp his meaning. It worked, but only until they happened upon another situation. Also, there were times when he found himself explaining despite the language barrier.

Following Noriko though the sparse trees, the young man thought back to the most recent of those incidences.

" _Izark, how?"_

_He was tacking up the horse. Noriko stood at the horse's head, holding the reins. His mind on not cinching the girth too tightly, he responded without thinking, gesturing here and there as he spoke._

" _You put the bridle on first and hold the reins, so that the horse can't walk away. Next comes the saddle pad. You have to put it on extra far up, because it will slide back when you put the saddle on. The breast plate goes on over the neck. Then the saddle goes on, and you have to set it up far and then pull it back so it won't pinch the horse or rub her fur the wrong way. The girth should be attached to the saddle on one side. You attach the breast plate to the saddle with these buckles, pass this strap through the front legs and run the girth through this loop here. Then you tighten the girth like this…"_

_He stopped speaking abruptly. What was he doing? There was no way she could understand all those complex phrases!_

_The warrior turned his head to look at the girl, only to find her gazing with utmost concentration at the horse. Her lips were moving as she touched first the bridle, then the breast plate. Izark watched as she silently mouthed the name of each piece, running her hands over the leather and metal as she fixed words to images and vice versa. And he understood, finally, why she bothered to ask_ hows _and_ whys.

The young man had rarely declined to explain something since. Granted, there were times when he thought his tongue might fall off, but as long as he kept talking, she would keep listening, and learning.

Suddenly the trees fell away. Before them stretched a small clearing, overgrown with shrubs and tall grasses, and in the center…

Noriko had stopped. Walking up, Izark could not help but stare. A single tree towered in front of the girl. Though it was now high autumn, its leaves were still dark green, and many large, crimson flowers bloomed on its branches.

No wonder Noriko had run to find him. Obviously, she wanted to know _what_ the tree's name was. The warrior halted beside her, waiting for the girl to turn and ask for an answer.

The question did not come. Perplexed, the warrior looked at Noriko, only to find her gazing as if spellbound at the great tree.

"Noriko?"

The young woman started, then dragged her eyes away from the tree to look at Izark. When he was sure he had her attention, the warrior pointed to the tree and named it. "Hana. A _Hana_ tree."

Silence met his words.

Noriko stared up at her guardian, trying with all her might to connect what she _knew_ with what he was telling her. Finally, she managed to stammer out,

"H- hana? Hana… tree?"

He was nodding, puzzlement in his eyes. _What is going on here?_

Noriko looked back at the tree, then at Izark, then at the tree, wondering how to say what she wished to tell him. _One word. I need one word, and an example._ She turned around, searching for the thing she needed in the clearing. When she found it, she whirled back to the warrior and held up her hand, said, "Wait," and trotted away, leaving Izark stock still and utterly mystified.

The young man watched as Noriko ran to a tall, blooming sedge, plucked off a flower, and returned. Holding it up before him, she pointed to it with her free hand.

"Flower," she told him, as if to make this very clear.

"Yes…?" he responded, not following her at all. But she smiled, and nodded. Walking passed him, she stepped up onto the roots of the tree and, leaning on the trunk, stretched up on her toes, reaching for the lowest of the red blossoms. But no matter how she tried, she couldn't get her hand high enough to touch the bloom.

She heard a rustle behind her, and a long arm came into view above her head. Balancing perfectly on another root, Izark carefully picked the bloom, then gently put it in her up stretched hand.

Only to have it immediately shoved under his nose.

"Flower," Noriko stated again, reminding him of the tutor he had had as a very small child.

" _Yes,_ flower," the warrior told her, trying his best to keep the exasperation from his voice.

Again, Noriko beamed at him. Stepping down from the root she had been standing on, the girl took her hand from the trunk and transferred the sedge blossom from that hand to the one holding the red flower.

The next word she spoke was, as she knew it would be, extremely confusing to Izark.

"Hana," she said, pointing to the flowers in her hand.

… _Maybe_ she's _confused._ "No, this red one is a hana flower. The purple one is an autumn sedge. This tree is a _hana tree._ It is quite rare, and usually only grows in gardens, but the sedge…" he trailed off as Noriko shook her head so vigorously that he wondered if she would get dizzy.

" _Iie._ No," she told him firmly, then modified her tactics. She pointed to both flowers at once. "Here– Zago. _Flower._ Nippon– _Hana._ "

She knew Izark understood when the frown he had been wearing vanished, to be replaced by wonder. Slowly, he reached out and touched the blossoms.

"The word for flower in your language… is _hana._ "

His discovery was rewarded with a blinding smile, but Noriko was not finished. Instead, she pointed to the tree.

"Here– _Hana tree._ Nippon– _Tsubaki._ "

It was Noriko's turn to watch as Izark stared, amazed. If she meant what he _thought_ she meant…"So… So, the word you use for _flower_ is the one we use for this tree. And your word for the tree…"

"Tsubaki!" The girl was grinning, delighted.

This was food for thought. It was the first time Noriko had ever tried to teach Izark the Japanese name for something. And such a rare tree, with a name that was practically a cognate for flower… She had dashed back to find him the minute she saw it. She had _recognized_ it, meaning… Meaning–

"Izark?"

He had been staring at the Hana, the _Tsubaki._ Looking down, Izark found that Noriko had been staring at _him,_ waiting for him to speak. She was still holding the two flowers.

Looking up at him, Noriko thought she saw pity in those unfathomable eyes.

Slowly, Izark reached out and touched the petals of the red camellia.

"Keep this. I'll show you how to dry it. It would be a shame not to, since you might be the only one who knows its real name. Keep it," he said again, folding her hand more firmly around the blossom's twiggy stem.

Both the warrior and his charge were silent as they made their way back to the campsite, Noriko carrying the red flower and the now full canteen, Izark holding a few large, flat river stones. After finishing the fire pit he had been making when the girl interrupted him, Izark showed her how she might preserve the blossom by pressing it in her diary, using flat stones as weights whenever they stopped.

"Noriko!"

It was morning. The warrior had been alarmed when he found that, while everything else was prepared for departure, his traveling companion seemed to have disappeared.

"Noriko!" He tracked her presence to the hana tree– or, as she called it, the _tsubaki._ There she was, sitting at its base, gazing up into the glossy green leaves. She didn't seem to have heard Izark at all.

For a moment, the young man stood, unsure as to the gentlest way to break the trance she appeared to be in.

Suddenly the girl sighed, shook her head, and scrambled to her feet. After taking a few steps, she turned, took one last look at the tree, then whipped around and ran.

Straight into Izark.

"Izark! I… I sorry!"

"It's all right. Just come along. Anyway, it's 'I _am_ sorry.'"

 


	2. How to Greet a Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VanessaxAtalanta over on FFN.

The winter of the Year of the Awakening was unusually warm and wet. Not that it snowed much in the mild climates around the Midland Sea, but the excess of rain had all the farmers forecasting a dry spring and drier summer, no matter what the seers said.

For his part, Izark was grateful for the lack of cold, and particularly the lack of snow––it meant that the mountains were traversable. Between dense rainforest and barren, timeworn mountain, Zago was a rugged place. If the passes had been closed by snow, the warrior would have been forced to choose between taking Noriko through the troops camped in the lowlands or waiting out the winter in some foothill shack.

Neither option was very appealing. On his own, Izark could have gotten through––he was used to dodging conscription––but he had this girl on his hands. There was almost nothing more potentially dangerous to a fetching little thing like Noriko than an army of bored, leering men, and that went without considering that she was also the Awakening for which every military in the world was searching.

Staying in one place would have been even less prudent. The combination of a traveling warrior and an island girl was already conspicuous, and stopping would only make them that much easier to trace.

Also, Izark wasn't sure he could stand being holed up with the Awakening for over a month.

It wasn't that he disliked Noriko––quite the contrary. If he was honest with himself, the young man would admit that he enjoyed her company more than he would have thought possible.

He _liked_ Noriko: her small peculiarities, her fascination with everything she saw.

Her friendship.

Her _smile_.

However, the prophecy of the Awakening was a near-constant shadow in the back of his mind. No, as the Sky Demon, Izark was already too much involved; he couldn't afford to become anymore attached, and waiting for the passes to clear would have driven him mad (if he wasn't already––he sometimes wondered).

Nonetheless, the warrior set an easy pace for his charge's sake, and for the horse's. They traveled slowly, walking and riding at intervals along winding mountain roads that barely anyone used during that time of the year, and stopping when it rained. He saw no purpose in haste––without evident pursuit, running would just be a waste of energy. It wouldn't do for either the horse or Noriko to sicken from exhaustion. With any luck, they could mosey along the entire way and still reach Gaya's town before the middle of spring. No, there was no need to rush.

xxxxxxxxxx

On an unseasonably warm and sunny noon near the end of winter, a shadow passed over the sun. Izark pulled the horse up short, staring skyward. Noriko followed his gaze but saw nothing unusual; just the sheer rock walls of the gorge through which the trail ran. Twisting around to look at the man seated behind her, she was slightly disconcerted to find that the intent, measuring gaze he had trained on the firmament was now directed at her. "Izark?"

Quickly the warrior weighed the risks against the opportunity that had just presented itself at the top of the cliff. It was unreasonable to expect heights-shy Noriko to go up _that_ way, but there _should_ be another route. The horse couldn't come in any case. _But if I'm right,_ he rationalized, _then there's a settlement around here somewhere…_

"Izark? What––what is it?" Noriko was asking in her foreign accent, looking from him to the top of the gorge and back again with uncertainty.

The young man dealt her a small smile, just the barest lift of the corners of his mouth to show that circumstances were not dire. "Never mind. You'll see."

xxxxxxxxxx

As Izark had predicted, they came to a ramshackle hamlet at the opening of the gorge––a cluster of five or so rickety stone buildings with mossy roofs and listing foundations. There was neither inn nor stable––not even a tying post–– but that was to be expected. These folk had little use for horses; littler still for visitors.

Noriko stood back and held the horse as, near the largest house, Izark exchanged some words with a weedy, grim-faced teenager working in a rocky vegetable garden. The Japanese girl couldn't make out what was said, but after a moment the mountain boy put down his hoe and trotted into the house.

The result: an equally weedy, grim-faced older man emerged to plant himself firmly between the travelers and the tumbledown gate. He carried a quiver slung across his back; a longbow strung in his hand. He had the look of a man whose life had used him hard, bringing some of the aspect of old age to a countenance that was otherwise barely past the prime of life. At first his posture was guarded, even hostile, but after some tense discussion his air changed to thoughtfulness, then to interest. The way he kept peering over Izark's shoulder at her made Noriko wonder if they were talking about her, and worry about what that could mean.

Finally, the mountain man's gaunt face split into a beaming grin (pleasant, despite a number of missing teeth) and he responded positively to the last thing Izark had said. He even invited them inside, directing the boy––his son––to put their horse in a small shed at the back of the house and to care for it while he did business with the visitors.

The man, Perik Sabra Lukar, sketched out a map while a granddaughter handed around the makings of a light midday meal. (From what Noriko could gather, the settlement was populated solely by Perik, his children, and their families.) The patriarch's enthusiasm in regards to whatever Izark was proposing was in startling contrast to his initial unwelcome. He thumped the young warrior on the back (something Izark tolerated with discomfiture), ruffled Noriko's hair, and asked all manner of questions. Where were they from? Where were they bound? Seconds, anyone? He laughed at how the 'island girl' butchered the name of his little domain––he found the way her inexperienced tongue turned 'Rinaxucal' into 'Rin-akisukara' _highly_ amusing _––_ and, grinning impishly, said several things that Noriko did not understand, but that caused Izark to blush and stammer denials. When he finally sent them off, it was with an invitation to stay the night, as well as a promise not to let the horse get eaten.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Recalling that last, Noriko could only conclude that she had misinterpreted, or maybe it was one of those cultural idioms that would take her years to figure out.

Shaking off the suspicion that she'd understood perfectly, she returned to the task at hand.

They were halfway up a set of near-vertical stone stairs, Izark following to guard against mishap. Noriko had just paused for a breather. She did not have to rest nearly as long as she would have when she first came to this world––riding the horse was a surprisingly vigorous activity, and the young woman's endurance had increased dramatically over the last several weeks. She was less confident in regards to coordination, and was both grateful for and embarrassed by her guardian's insight on that point.

She renewed her progress up the stairs. Actually, she thought it would be more accurate to call it a ladder, with notches cut into the rock walls to serve as handholds. A good thing, too, because the steps were slippery with condensation and worn smooth by running water.

_Running water?_ She wondered where she got that impression. But yes, now that she looked, the steps were rounded on the edges, with pits and grooves where flood-borne debris had carved out intrusions in the softer stone. The steps of ancient temples were not worn this way, but hollowed towards the center by the passing of hundreds upon hundreds of feet. These stairs had that kind of wear as well, but _under_ the marks made by water. No recent pilgrimages, then, but they were still old. Very old.

Reaching for the next handhold, the girl winced when her hand scraped against a sharp edge in the wall. Aside from the notches, they were completely un-worked. Whoever made the stairs had taken advantage of a natural crevice in an otherwise impassable mountainside.

It certainly _looked_ impassable, at least from the outside. Noriko had been apprehensive when it seemed like Perik's map led up and over a sheer cliff––since coming to this world, she'd cultivated a new appreciation for guardrails––and was greatly relieved when Izark showed her the narrow fissure hidden behind a jumble of rubble. The shape of the mound had struck her as unnatural, and she realized now that _someone_ had deliberately piled those stones in order to disguise the entrance to the stairs.

_Why?_ Noriko wondered. Where had the stairs' makers intended them to lead? Where did they lead now? She had asked Izark where they were going during the short hike to the cliff, but the warrior had just said, "You'll see," and smirked.

_Humph._

Unbeknownst to Noriko, Izark had continued to stand where he was and was watching her climb. Or rather, watching her think as she climbed. It was interesting––fun, even. He could almost _see_ the wheels turning as she gathered information to make up for answers he had purposely denied her. Still, he was confident that what lay ahead would be a complete surprise and, he hoped, a pleasant one.

The swordsman was gratified by the look of astonishment that came over the girl's face when they reached the top of the steps.

Much like Perik's hospitality, the wide fertile valley that spread out before them was entirely unexpected after weeks of nothing but mountain scrub and bare rock. A watercourse wound lazily down from hazy mountains, reflecting a perfect blue sky. Tall, yellowing grasses grew in the flood plain on both sides of the creek, and a group of giant rabbit-like creatures grazed serenely. Here and there, a raccoon-ish burrowing rodent poked its head up to look around.

The warrior had no way of knowing it, but Noriko had another reason to stare.

' _A stream runs through it._

_A shade of blue beyond description._

_Beautiful, peaceful animals.'_

But for differences owing to the change of seasons, it was all shockingly familiar.

It was her dreamscape.

Izark consulted the map. Then, taking a careful moment to fix the position of the stairs in his mind, he led the way down into the valley. Noriko followed, still feeling a bit overawed.

Another brief trek brought them to a clump of trees and tall shrubs that had seen better days. It looked to Noriko as if something large and ungainly had rested here recently. One or two lower branches hung down from splintered bases, while the dry winter grass was decidedly flattened.

Observing the damage, Izark nodded, then lowered himself into a sitting position with his back against the trunk of an ill-used tree. "Noriko," the warrior murmured, and motioned for the girl to sit beside him. The look she gave him was questioning, but she did as she was asked, folding her legs neatly beneath her in what he assumed was proper etiquette wherever she came from.

Nodding again in approval, he raised a hand for stillness and quiet. "Hush," he ordered, and settled back to wait.

Noriko obliged, though she was bursting to ask what had made such a huge dent in the undergrowth. She wanted to know why the stairs were built, why they were hidden, who had hidden them, what they were waiting for, etc. She wanted to verify whether Izark knew that she had a connection to this place, and if so then _how_ he knew. She wanted to know any number of things, but suspected that the young man would just say "You'll see," and shush her again. He _usually_ explained things. What was the point of her being able to understand what he said if he wouldn't tell her anything? Frustrated, she bit back a petulant huff.

The wait ended.

Noriko stiffened as the ground quivered. Greenery rustled and snapped as something huge shifted on the other side of the trees. Twisting toward the sounds, she jolted in fright when an eye bigger than a softball peered back at her from the bushes.

A reassuring hand settled on her shoulder, as a beige head the size of a man's torso nosed through the foliage, followed by a long neck which bent with serpentine grace. _It_ possessed a set of giraffe-like horns, while the nose was vaguely equine. However, the creature's milky amber eyes were not that of an herbivore, but set forward in the skull like a predator's. Darker amber pupils expanded from slits to wide ovals as they adjusted to the shade on this side of the trees.

Calmly, Izark reached up his other hand. The beast lowered its head to sniff his fingers, and was rewarded with a pat on the nose. Immediately, the dinosaur––for the finely beaded texture of its pale hide resembled nothing so much as that of certain types of lizards–– stretched its neck down and twisted so the warrior could scratch behind its jaw. Chuckling, Izark obliged for a moment, then guided the animal's head around to Noriko.

After some prompting from the swordsman, the girl slowly reached out a tentative hand to stroke the smooth, warm nose, and couldn't help but giggle at the happy whining noises the creature emitted from its nostrils when she did. _It_ s breath didn't smell so good, but then neither did a dog's.

"Izark? What is called?" she found herself asking her guardian.

"We call them _winged dinosaurs,_ " the young man answered, and watched as the girl dissected the phrase.

Noriko certainly _was_ 'dissecting' the creature's name. The _dinosaurs_ part wasn't difficult––a plural form, it combined a word that she was pretty sure meant 'reptile' with a sound that conveyed great size. And _winged_ ––birds had _wings_.

_A_ winged dinosaur _––a big reptile that has_ wings _––_

… _Wings?_

Izark, observing with interest, tried not to smirk as Noriko's eyes moved up the creature's neck to stop at the foliage hiding the rest of its form from view. Slowly, so as not to startle the large friendly beast, he stood. Noriko looked up when he moved, and was mimicking him before he had a chance to tell her to stand. Nodding, the warrior turned and stepped away from the dinosaur's head, pacing backward in a straight line and gesturing for the girl to follow.

The dinosaur was not ready to give up being petted, and the ground trembled slightly as it maneuvered after them through the trees, bending branches almost to the breaking point, and flattening a small bush with one taloned foot while several more fell victim to its tail.

Noriko stared. It _did_ have wings: immense bat-like appendages folded tightly over its back like a bird's.

It was not quite a dragon––with only two back legs and no arms, her science-fiction author father would have called it a _wyvern,_ and she doubted that winged dinosaurs could breathe fire _._ Nonetheless, this was the stuff of her father's novels, and it was very real.

And very needy. Having freed itself from the underbrush, the dinosaur lurched forward on its raptor-like legs to stick its nose under Izark's hand, making soft keening noises and plainly asking for another scratch.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Unlike Guzena, Rienka, and a few other countries around the Midland Sea, Zago didn't have a national flight of winged dinosaurs. As far as the monarchy knew, there were no winged dinosaurs in Zago.

Almost everyone else knew better.

Generations of mountain smugglers guarded the nearly inaccessible valleys that served as nesting grounds for the slow growing reptiles. Though wild dinosaurs were ferocious predators, new hatchlings imprinted easily on humans. If you could successfully incubate an egg and then spend the next ten years training the hatchling, you'd have a gentle and obliging mount that could cover six hundred miles in less than a day. If it happened to be a female and you had plenty of help, then in another five years you could have up to four growing young dinosaurs capable of carrying increasingly heavy loads of contraband that would follow their mother anywhere––like Geeko, where government control of pearl fisheries in the Gulf of Isabesh had prompted a thriving black market. Or, if you were really ambitious, to the Free City of Rienka, whose geography made it _the_ trade capital of the northern Midland Sea, and where the merchants were notoriously unscrupulous concerning what and who they dealt with.

"Business is slow," Perik mourned over supper, "what with troops swarming the lowlands; it's not safe to fly in case we're seen. Worse, Geeko and Yansk keep sending their flights straight over top of us. Guzena did too, at the very start, but not anymore. I hear they were attacked by Rienka's mercenaries––lost most of their dinosaurs. They won't risk sending out the ones they have left." He sighed. "Me neither, until things calm down a bit. I can't stand the thought of any of my darlings being captured by those brutes."

Catching only every third word as she was, Noriko couldn't tell if Perik was referring to his grown children (also smugglers) or the tame dinosaurs that inhabited the hidden valley.

"You saw Pearl, right?" The mountain man asked Izark, who murmured a confirmation. "She's our matriarch––while she's alive, the only dinosaurs she'll tolerate in the valley are her babies and the passing male. Everyone knows that Grand Duke Kemil is just dying to get his hands on a matriarch so he can start a national flight. If the government finds out about the valley––about _any_ of the valleys–– they'll confiscate everything––Pearl, her kids, the valley; _me_ , _my_ kids, _their_ kids–– _everything_."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Izark paid Perik for their room and board, suffered a vigorous handshake, and refused the mountain man's offer to adopt Noriko ("I'm a little short of daughter-in-laws," was how Perik put it) before collecting the horse and loading his drowsy charge into the saddle. Apparently, once he ascertained that they were in no way connected to the government of Zago, Perik just loved entertaining visitors. He'd talked for the better part of the night.

Riding the horse still required some focus on Noriko's part. After an hour or so, she was awake enough to broach a few subjects about which she had questions. "Izark?"

"Yeah?"

"Perik…do not like government?"

"No. He's a smuggler."  
"Smuggler…?"

"…Well––"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been incubating since––well, since I saw the cover of Vol. 4. In the end, it's half 'sketch' file that I wrote years ago labeled 'Prior to Market Day' and half…something else. Thanks again to BlueTrillium for all the feedback. You were right, it should be a colon.  
> Pearl's (that's right, the dragoness) personality is based on that of my absurdly friendly cat, Hermes, who not only enjoyed hugs but would hug you back––then attempt to claw his way back up if you put him down before he was finished being cuddled.
> 
> ~Lanta
> 
> P.S. I deeply appreciate constructive criticism--it's one of the main reasons I post these things.


	3. Market Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An augmented version of a part of Noriko's exposition at the start of volume three. Mostly Izark's point of view, since the thoughts of our favorite tortured warrior were frequently a mystery and therefore worthy of speculation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was little, one of my favorite songs was a folk round. A lovely commenter on FFN informed me that its title is "White Coral Bells or May Bells. The first known publication is in 1916 in the "Fourth Year" volume of the "Hollis Dann Music Course" ( .edu/folklore/ballad)". Here are the lyrics:
> 
> White coral bells
> 
> Upon a slender stalk
> 
> Lily of the valley line my garden walk
> 
> Oh, don't you wish
> 
> That you could hear them ring
> 
> That will happen only when the fairies sing
> 
> Anyway, remember the scene in book three, where Noriko buys something and comments on the similarities between Izark's world and her own?

 

The fruit was sweet and tangy, and left zinging warmth on the edges of Noriko's tongue after she swallowed. Actually, it tasted a bit like something from home. Or rather, it tasted like something she had smelled at home. An image flitted through the girl's mind: her grandfather knelt in his garden, transplanting a young bush and carefully avoiding delicate bell shaped blooms that were the color of pearl.

Without words, Noriko made it clear to Izark what she thought of this dried "balo" fruit. The young man simply nodded as he counted out the required coins, then paid the stall tender for several of the large, fig-like berries and the bag needed to carry them. Frowning slightly, he calculated that, having already bought the trail rations to keep the two of them and the horse alive until they were through the mountains, he still had enough money to restock his first aid kit and pay some bribes without risking financial difficulties. This one small indulgence couldn't possibly hurt. The mayor of Calco had apologized rather excessively for giving him only 5000 zol after his trouble with the thieves. True, 5000 zol _was_ a low price for a hired blade, but used responsibly…

"Balo is very good." The sentence was short and heavily accented, but clear and grammatically correct. Watching Izark for signs that she'd made a mistake, Noriko saw something glimmer in those dark eyes. A moment later, and nothing. Haltingly, she continued, "Balo is very good, but… But, expensive. Why…Why…?" Faltering, not knowing how to ask why he had chosen such a seemingly impractical purchase, she trailed off with a look that was as charming as it was frustrated and hopeless.

Guessing at her meaning, Izark pretended to misinterpret the words she had used. Traveling with Noriko and concealing from her their relationship as the Awakening and the Sky Demon, the young man was cultivating a talent for telling (and implying) half-truths. He had realized early on that his charge was far more perceptive than he had first given her credit for, and that he himself was too poor a liar to get away with any real falsehoods. "They're expensive because they've been dried. Fresh balos don't last very long, and the mountains are pretty far across." Hoping for once that she _didn't_ understand, Izark turned in the direction of the spice market. "Come on, we still have a few things to buy." He certainly was not going to tell her that the fruit was a treat, or that he had noticed how much she liked sweet things.

Noriko's eyes glowed as she identified a verb from its context. "Buy?"

"That's right. Like, 'I buy balos,' Izark replied as they stopped in front of another booth. Urns and baskets overflowed with the big seedpods of the thathars plant. The oil made from crushing the seeds made a good base for tonics and salves, and was in itself an exceptional ointment for burns. Struck by an idea, Izark handed the money pouch to Noriko. "Pick one," he instructed, pointing to the baskets. "A black one, with lots of seeds."

The spark of pride and admiration, which Izark had attempted to smother, ignited again as Noriko carefully selected and paid for her purchase without his assistance. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to bury emotions connected with her, as if they already ran so deep as to touch the bottom of his heart. Occasionally, he would be forced to remember her identity as the Awakening. At times like this, however, there was little room in his awareness for fear and doubt.

"Here. Same," Noriko said, smiling as she returned his purse and handed over the thathars pod. Her next phrase was in Japanese, therefore unintelligible. "It helps me. My world. Sun. Moon. Stars. Same. Animals. Plants. Kinds. Many. We have."

Watching her, Izark saw a measure of peace in Noriko's expression that lightened his mind and, for a moment, drove out all the anxieties that plagued him. _She's happy. For now, she's happy…_

"Balo like…" The marks of an expressive personality bereft of its means to communicate were now clear on Noriko's face as she meaningfully tapped her nose.

"You mean, 'Balo _tastes_ like'…?" Izark supplied, pointing to his mouth. He was puzzled when Noriko shook her head.

"Balo tastes like…" she repeated after him, tapped her nose, then spoke a strange word.

Izark had been staring blankly for half a minute before he figured it out. When he did, he was forced to look up at the sky and take another half-minute to rearrange the grin stealing over his face into a more reserved expression. It was all that the usually guarded warrior could do not to tweak that adorable little nose. He'd known some interesting people in his life so far, but he'd never met anyone who thought like Tachiki Noriko. Who ever heard of comparing a taste with a smell?

Any one who knew him (as well as a few who didn't) would have seen that Izark was in danger, though not the mortal kind. Walking through a morning market in Zago, the young man was keenly aware of the sounds that Noriko's feet made on the cobblestones behind him, a pitter-patter for every one of his own long strides.

"So, balo tastes like something you've smelled before, eh?" he said, and slowed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title--being the same as the work title--might suggest, this one-shot was the one that started it all. As in, my first published fanfiction, ever. Good times.  
> With love,  
> ~Lanta


	4. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own From Far Away, Hikawa Kyoko does, but I did think up a way to explain Izark's ability to sense other people and monsters. Well, besides Noriko; she's selectively telepathic and special like that.
> 
> Anyway, this scene takes place the night after Izark leaves Noriko at Gaya's house.

 

_It's so quiet._

Izark lay stretched out under a wagon, one hand behind his head, which rested against his bag. There was no need for him to find an inn; the night was a spring one, and warm. Besides, it would take more than a cool breeze and a little dew to hurt him.

He'd spent most nights like this since he left home.

That is, before the last three months.

The young man shifted, trying to get comfortable. He'd have to get used to sleeping on the ground again. Recently he had made every effort to find a room whenever he entered a town.

Or rather, whenever _they_ entered a town.

Izark shifted, settled himself, and shifted again. He had been fidgeting for a good half an hour before he finally gave up, resigned to sleeplessness. He would have to re-accustom himself by degrees, starting with mildly uneven ground and working his way back up to wheel ruts. True, they had settled for haylofts at least a dozen times, and they had done a good deal of camping in the mountains, but these were not facts that supported the explanation the young man had invented and so had no business in his mind at present.

_It's so quiet._

The evening before had seemed silent, as well. Spent on one of Gaya's soft spare beds, with good clean sheets and warm blankets and the window open just a crack so that cool fresh air slid into the room. So comfortable, yet he had tossed and turned for the better part of two hours.

During that time- he would not, _could not_ admit it, but- during that time, he had begun to wonder whether she fared as poorly as he did. Without even realizing it he had opened his senses; feeling for the tiniest vibration in the atmosphere.

And he had heard- or rather felt- _her_.

She had been there, just paces away through the wall. The space around her was warmed to the temperature of her body, which he knew to be just slightly cooler than his. The wall absorbed most of that heat before it could reach him, and there was not a trace of the special, alien-world smell that still wafted –now ever so faintly- from her skin, or of the sound of her heart, usually muffled by blankets but now completely blocked by wooden beams and plaster. He could, however, hear her waking breaths, shallow and fast compared to those of sleep. There had been sadness in the harsh way the air passed her lips. That quality slowly faded as the rhythm gradually slowed, and he knew she slept.

He must have drifted off not long after that.

_It's so quiet._ And yet he could hear the light spring breeze wending through the streets. Somewhere a shutter creaked back and forth, back and forth. It was too early in the season for insects, but already a few muffled chirrups could be heard, even this far into the city. The wagon was filled with hay. Damp, musty hay, if the strong odor of fermenting grasses was any indication. The stable in front of which the wagon was parked radiated warmth from the many drowsy horses kept within. They too, had a pungent scent.

Small comfort to Izark, who twisted restlessly again, stubbornly cursing the hard ground as the cause of his insomnia.

Presently the chiming for the fifth period of dark could be heard. The young man jerked upright in frustration- _Damned bell-_ , and narrowly avoided cracking his head on the wagon's axle.

Snatching up his bag, Izark scrambled out from under the wooden vehicle, slung his belongings over his shoulder, then set off at a stiff trot. There was no point in sitting around and waiting for morning when he could be putting as much space as possible between his person and the Awakening. Or so he told himself.

Sleep was overrated, anyway. Restless sleep was worse than wakefulness. Why hadn't it occurred to him before? Such a slumber would only come with the nightmares.

They had been different lately. Less of his mother. Less of fire, and shadows. More of wide brown eyes, made wider still by terror and pain. More of a special foreign scent mixing with the sour smell of fear, or the tang of blood, or both. More of shrill, petrified sobbing, of a heart-beat and then nothing, of a familiar warmth suddenly extinguished.

On and on he ran, filling the darkness with his echoing steps.

On and on, down empty streets, striving -as ever- to outrun his fate.

And now, the silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, especially if you, dear reader, should find errors of any kind. Muchas gracias.


	5. Cradle Song: A Mothers' Day Tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mothers' Day 2016 to the tune of Kelly Sweet's tear-jerking "Je T'Aime". Since I don't think it's in the public domain, I won't copy the lyrics here. If you want, you can find the song on YouTube.
> 
> This story lands firmly in the Territory of Bittersweet—see my note at the end of the chapter as to why I thought it an appropriate offering on Mothers' Day.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to BlueTrillium for finding my mistakes.

 

Izark didn't sing often—or _well._

Noriko came to understand this in the days following their harrowing conflict with the _thing_ from the White Mist Woods.

Laying on her back—which _hurt_ , as said body area was riddled with deep bruises, but not as badly as the movements required to change position—there wasn't much to do besides listen to the goings on around her.

And sleep. Between the herbs Izark fed her against the pain and her own innate tendency to simply _go dormant_ while she was recovering from something, Noriko spent much of the time unconscious.

When she was awake, though, she whiled away the hours listening to the others as they discussed their collective situation—politics, strategies, food supply, how far to the next town…

The logistics of carrying a young woman whose torso and legs were one big case of blunt trauma was a point of some contention. Izark and Gaya—and Banadam, which Noriko found odd—were adamant that they wait at least a week before moving her. The others eventually agreed, though it meant sleeping out in the elements. Their caution for her sake was heartwarming, even as her chagrin at being a burden brought her close to tears.

When the female warrior was around, Auntie Gaya kept her busy with a constant stream of practical knowledge—how to process the roots she'd found that morning, pleasant spice combinations, all manner of bush-craft and heal-craft, and even a little bit about sword-craft.

Once, Duke Jeida spoke of his life, his aspirations, and his changing perspectives.

Izark was never far when she was awake. She knew he found other tasks while she slept—and that Barago was fairly impressed with the amount of wood Izark could cut _and_ split with a sword in under an hour—but he seemed reluctant to let her wake without him there. She couldn't decide if this was because she'd asked him to stay near, or if he felt like she'd been injured _because_ he'd drawn away just before the cliff face came down on her.

She quickly dismissed the notion that maybe he _wanted_ to be there.

Frequently, one or another of their companions would start to hum as they went about their lives. More often than not, others would join in, adding lyrics if they knew them. The songs ranged from the humorous through the contemplative to the downright tragic, but most were some form of story. Folktales and chronicles, legends and memoirs, fictions and facts. The tale of the traveler Irktule came around, proving what the tree spirit had told her about his namesake.

It seemed as if Duke Jeida and his sons could relate the entire history of Zago in song.

Rontarna was particularly inventive with harmonies.

Koriki was tone deaf, but Rontarna's talent somehow turned his brother's rhythmic droning into something artistic.

Barago had one of the most beautiful bass voices Noriko had ever heard, and the others shared her admiration. The big warrior blushed and insisted that it just took training.

For whatever reason, Gaya favored love ballads—the ones where everyone wound up dead.

Banadam liked war songs.

Being from across the Inland Sea, Geena and Agol shared a slightly different repertoire from the Gray Birds and nobles.

Geena sang what were unmistakably children's songs, though the maturity with which the little girl approached everything turned the simple verses into revelations.

Agol sang lullabies.

Izark rarely joined in, and only because Barago pressed him. When a song finished, the former prize-fighter would wallop him on the back and assure the younger man that he would improve with practice.

Although they tried to hide it, the others were clearly surprised—Noriko deduced that in this culture, singing was a common source of entertainment, social activity, and probably the preferred avenue by which stories were told.

And Izark's singing wasn't _bad,_ exactly. A bit rough, perhaps, but on pitch.

Banadam's martial tunes were filled with courage, and loyalty to a just cause.

Gaya's sad ballads cut deep, a cathartic address to decades-old emotional wounds.

Agol's cradlesongs held enough parental love to fill their campsite. Noriko thought that if only he had more than one voice box, the widowed father might have sung harmonies to take the place of a mother and grandparents that would never make another sound.

There were no emotionsbehind Izark's voice. No memories. No associations.

Just a _void._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

" _Whaddaya mean,_ your folks didn't _sing_?" That was Barago, exclaiming over Izark's response when Agol tried to draw him out on his musical skills—or lack thereof.

Gaya and Duke Jeida's boys had struck out on their own a few days ago. From her room in the house they had rented for the last week or so, Noriko imagined she heard an exasperated sigh escape her self-appointed guardian.

"Just what I said," Izark retorted. There was a jagged edge surrounding the hollowness in his tone—one that she thought even Barago would hesitate to approach. "They didn't sing."

The next thing she heard was the sound of a wooden door jarring back into its frame.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She starting to get up and move about for more than using the chamber pot. Izark had seemed conflicted, but both Agol and Barago thought she should start using her muscles again as soon as doing so didn't make her tear up. Apparently, both men had sustained broken bones in the past, and knew from experience that the deterioration caused by inactivity was every bit as worrisome as an actual injury.

Noriko could see why—she was shocked at how her physical endurance had declined in just weeks. Simply walking from one room to the next could make her tired, and sometimes she had to settle for sitting up in bed to write.

On the fourth day, she pushed a little too hard. When he found her snoozing against a tree just thirty steps from the front door, Izark scooped her up and carried her back to her room, grumbling under his breath about not being able to leave her alone for a single moment.

The next time she woke, it was night. Somewhere, not far at all, someone was singing.

_Izark_ was singing.

The melody was minor, but not entirely sad. From what she could understand of the words, Noriko thought it might be a lullaby, but not one of the ones Agol had shared with them.

Where any other song she'd heard from him had been just a pattern, this one had _meaning._

_Safety. Contentment. Rest_ _._

_You are loved._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She kept the memory of that evening for a month before she found the occasion to enquire about it. When she did, Izark asked her to let him think first.

"My parents never sang," he said suddenly, just when she had given up on getting an answer that night. It had been weeks since they fled Selena Guzena, leaving Gaya and the others to make their own way. A little startled, Noriko lifted her head to look at him over the moth-eaten covers of a rural inn. Izark sat at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. "Not to me, or anywhere I could hear. All those songs that the others know—I'd never heard eight tenths of them before."

He went silent, and Noriko took the time to perceive what he hadn't said. "But you know that one? From…from then?"

By now, he'd told her the story of his childhood. She couldn't bring herself to call such a time and place a _home._

He nodded.

"What is it called?"

"I don't know."

" _Someone_ must have sung it to you. Who?"

"…I don't remember." There was something like horror in his voice, as if the loss of that one name was somehow worse than everything else going up in flames.

As if he'd inadvertently tossed something precious into the burnt-out _void_ where he kept all that despair and guilt and rage, and he didn't know if he had the courage to go looking for it.

Noriko knew that he did.

But she didn't think he was ready.

"Izark," she called quietly, sitting up and pushing back the covers.

He looked over at her, a question dying on his lips when she crossed the space between their beds and wrapped herself around his head, his shoulders.

She felt the tension leave him, slowly, breath by breath. Finally, he raised his arms to return her embrace.

"Next time we see everyone, you should teach Agol that song," she found herself telling him, trying to acknowledge the _good_ while keeping what they couldn't deal with right now at a distance.

Like the fact that they very well might never see everyone ever again.

They might never see _anyone_ ever again.

Yes, it was best to keep that at a distance for now. "It's perfect for Geena…. Or—Izark?"

He shifted in her arms, but didn't raise his head from where it was buried against her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Would you please teach it to me?"

_That_ got his attention. She could feel it in the quietness that came over him—a kind of singular focus that stilled his breathing and broke the last remnant of his earlier unease.

If the speed with which he directed her to sit at his side was any indication, he liked the idea very much.

Slowly and clearly, Izark began to sing.

_Safety._

_Contentment._

_Rest._

_You are loved._

_You are loved._

_You are loved._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…not an entirely happy story, but then Izark's relationship with his mom…well.
> 
> One of the major character comparisons in Kanata Kara is made between Izark, Rachef, and Noriko—all three have flashbacks in which their mothers/mother-figures play prominent roles. The lasting effect that mother-figures have on their children is a recurring theme throughout the series.
> 
> On a slightly different tack, it's pretty much been established that people who aren't shown enough affection between birth and the age of three or so end up with severe socio-emotional deficiencies (i.e.: Rachef). My mother has personal experience with this: her father and both uncles all suffer from an assortment of psychological glitches including but not limited to paranoia, narcissism, and schizophrenia.
> 
> Besides genetics, what do these three nutcases have in common?
> 
> They were all raised by my great-grandparents.  
> As a gene pool, we probably have a predisposition towards schizoaffective disorders. Among those family members who have sensations that aren't strictly real (and/or experience feelings of terror and persecution that cannot possibly be justified), having destructively selfish parents is another common factor.
> 
> I've thought for a while that the circumstances within my extended family might be the reason why I like Kanata Kara so much (or really, most of Hikawa Kyouko's works), as the series touches on and wrestles with many of the same questions I grew up with and still have today.
> 
> Back on topic:
> 
> If his mother and father weren't ever inclined to fulfill little Izark's emotional needs, how did he grow up to be the sympathetic, empathetic, more or less stable man he is?
> 
> My theory? Even if he doesn't remember, there must have been another caregiver. Maybe a wet-nurse, or a nanny?
> 
> Singing is a big part of my mother's family life. Her father (probably the most functional of the three brothers) credits his involvement with Barbershop (and a very good psychologist) for his current mental stability. His music is one of the things she will admit to loving him for, even if she was really (justifiably) angry at him for a long time.
> 
> Wishing you and your's a thoughtful Mothers' Day,
> 
> ~Lanta


	6. The Wind and the Moon: An All Hallows' Eve Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Halloween is awesome.

Noriko sat up quickly, shivering as a sudden breeze rushed around the tiny hollow. _But this place is on the leeward side of a mountain,_ she reasoned; _and the trees are so close together that they should make a windbreak-_

"Noriko?"

The girl turned her eyes toward the fire to find Izark sitting cross-legged on the other side. He had been sitting up, as was his habit, to watch the fire. That was what he said, and Noriko chose to believe him. Now he looked at her over the flames, concerned. It was not normal for Noriko to wake from deep sleep so suddenly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. It wouldn't do to betray his own present nervousness, lest it effect her impressions for the worse.

"Nothing, I guess," she replied, but looked around at the shadows beyond the halo of firelight. "Just the wind, I think." Though it had not been the wind that first woke her, she realized as she spoke. The girl could not help but tremble a little as she remembered the feeling that had startled her: a cloying, hazy presence rolling like smoke into a peaceful dream. An entity, not a figment, and with a will of its own, prodding at her latent fears and doubts with what seemed to be fiendish delight, then scattering into a thousand wisps the moment she became conscious of it. Noriko looked back at Izark, who was still gazing at her intently. "I thought I felt something," she admitted to him.

The young man's whole aspect changed without his moving a muscle. His expression never wavered, yet somehow his countenance was growing sterner every second.

"Something," he repeated, his voice even. "What kind of something?"

But his tension did not escape Noriko, who instantly knew what he was thinking.

"Oh, nothing like the monster in the White Mist Woods," she said, flapping her hand a little to assure him that it was nothing serious. "Nothing really sinister, it was more- well- mischievous. Like someone breathing in your ear, (Brother used to do that to me all the time) or howling outside your window after telling you a scary story, something like that."

"Hmm," Izark mused, glancing up to the place where the trees met the dark sky, and where a full moon was just making itself visible from behind the leafy branches. Seeing that white rim, the warrior promptly smacked himself in the forehead. "I thought the birds were making less noise than they should. Noriko, come over here. Bring your things."

Very curious as to why he had hit himself, the young woman obeyed. She quickly wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then carried her bag and pillow over to where he sat and knelt beside him, silently begging for an explanation. Staring at the fire, Izark absently put his arm around her waist.

"It's been a longtime since I paid attention to the Spirit Days," he said, pulling her closer until she had to scoot over in order to remain comfortable. "The last full moon of summer is what we call the SylphMoon. Some people say it's nature's way of warning us to prepare for winter's hardships, or that the elementals are reminding those who can't see them that the sylph and other spirits exist. Whatever the case, they will be very active tonight, the good and the bad, and they'll all be making mischief. Look." The fire dimmed, leaving them in darkness but for the glow of the red coals.

As her eyes adjusted, Noriko began to distinguish shapes in the night. Some were like sculpted moonlight, while others were figures of concentrated shadow. There were thousands of them, varying in distinctness from vague outlines to near solidity, covering the entire color spectrum, and running the gamut from luminous to completely obscure. There were those that could have passed for human, while many took the forms of fantastic beasts and still more took no form, but wove and coiled through the trees like living mist or many colored winds. She stared in awe at the phantasmal parade that swirled all around them, and cringed when a sprite, noting her awareness, swooped gleefully toward the two humans. In mid-dive the imp frowned, veering away, and did a tight circuit around them before pulling a face and whooshing off into the eddying mist.

"What was that?" Izark spoke softly in her ear when she recoiled, turning her head into his shoulder. He could tell from the way she had been staring that she sensed many more apparitions than he did. He drew he protectively into his lap, cuddling her to his chest as the fire blazed again, its light immediately overpowering that of the specters. "What did you see?"

Noriko looked up at him, shivering. "You didn't see them?" and then, to answer his question, "One just dived at us, but it lost interest for some reason. There are _thousands_ , Izark. You really can't see them?"

The young man shook his head. "I can see a few of them. Remember what Irk said, about how most people can't see him because he generates too little energy? Nights like this give them extra strength, so that the most powerful ones are visible. Irk must be pretty strong, if you can see him in broad daylight. He had been staring at the fire as he spoke, but now he craned his neck around in order to see her face. The fear he saw in the depths of her wide, bright eyes made him wish he had not told her about the SylphMoon or shown her the festival of shadows taking place all around them, but the damage was already done. Now he must do something to repair it.

"Don't worry," he whispered in a kind tone, resting his cheek against he forehead. "They won't touch you again as long as you are here with me."

"Why is that?" Noriko asked, trusting his words completely but nonetheless curious.

She immediately regretted the question. Izark was still and silent, which meant that she had touched a sore spot somewhere in his memory. It was a thing that she found herself doing much more often than she intended to, that being never, but which she couldn't seem to avoid.

The warrior swallowed, having decided what words he should and shouldn't use.

"I told you it's been a long time since I paid any attention to the Spirit Days. That's because I learned that I didn't _have_ to pay attention to them. Before I left home, I followed the same customs as everyone else: put an offering of some kind just outside every door and window, preferably in a clay dish that the spirits can break to prove they are real. The goal is to provide them with trouble they can cause outside the houses and the barns, the fields… you get the idea." He stared into the fire, resolved to avoid the subject of his family. For now. "I kept it up for a while after I left, but I couldn't always find a place to sleep inside. The first time that happened on a Spirit Day," here Izark paused to clear his throat.

_It was the Night of the Winter Fiend. A boy of about thirteen pelted along a mountain road, long strides eating up the distance as he attempted to backtrack, but it was already too late. Even at his current pace, it would take him until early morning to reach the town he had been aiming for. That was plenty of time for a fiend to find him._

_A strange mist was beginning to form. It glowed an icy blue that added to the chill of a winter night in the mountains. Finally, the child, for that is all he really was, came to a halt and glared into the darkness, flame blue dragons' eyes straining to penetrate the eerie haze. Cold sweat mixed with the moisture collecting on his shoulder-length black hair and trickled down his collar, while his breath came fast and shallow. Clenching his fist, he could feel sharp talons digging into his palm even as they formed._

_Izark turned slowly, considering his options. They were fewer than he liked, and each had their own risks attached. He could keep going in the fog, but doing so might draw unwanted, even dangerous attention. If he chose to stay put, on the other hand, he was more likely to meet an evil spirit even this far into the mountains than an hour down the road. Winter spirits tended to be more powerful in the highlands._

_A frigid gust from the lowlands he had been heading for blasted his back while leaving the thick fog intact, and the boy knew he was in for it. After a second's hesitation he dashed back up the path. In less than a minute he was at the stand of trees he had passed a short while ago. Quickly he pulled some food out of his bag and deposited it on the road. Hopefully that would placate anything that happened by. Hopefully…_

_Another squall sent the terrified child scrambling into the trees, where he huddled between the roots of a gnarled evergreen. Watching through the dense foliage, Izark thought he saw a particularly thick bank of mist moving slowly, deliberately, up the road. As it came closer, he began to perceive two or three individual bright spots. Or rather, figures with cores of shadow wrapped in concentrated light the same color as the mist. GREAT. But then again, this was how his luck tended to run. He'd heard that most winter spirits were reasonably non-threatening, as were most elemental spirits. It was the malevolent ones that made it so dangerous to be out on Spirit Days. It figured that on the one night he was caught outside he would end up encountering no less than three Frost Wraiths, by all accounts the kind of apparition most likely to kill you when, not if, it found you, not to mention the most sadistic. It was said that Frost Wraiths were actually a combination of elemental and dark spiritual energy, which explained their cruel nature._

_The cold that came with them hit the boy's throat and lungs like a physical blow. Breathing no longer seemed like an option. Now abreast of his hiding spot, the wraiths paused as one of them explored the offering he had left with a feathery tentacle of mist. The thing toyed with the bits of travel bread, derision obvious in its deliberate inspection of each tiny piece. One of the other creatures reached out a sinuous coil and picked up a large crumb, then let it fall with a dull ping on the road, where the mud had frozen solid. The third lost interest in the offering almost immediately, but rolled questing toward the copse of evergreens. Izark tried desperately to stop his teeth from chattering, even when he knew it wasn't the sound that drew the wraith._

_The grove filled with freezing mist as the fiend moved through the trees, clearly enjoying its prey's fear. The child shook uncontrollably as he stared death in the face. The intense blue light was all around him now, and the dark core he had first perceived as wrapped in the light hung directly before him and was expanding._

_It was the sight of the writhing black mass preparing to consume him that roused the boy's instincts. Suddenly the threatening cold was infuriating, the Wraith itself utterly revolting. He absolutely refused to die like this, that thing would not touch him, he'd make it sorry, this would not-_

_Instantly the mists retreated, as did their dark core, and Izark could breath again, though the spirit was still very close. He looked down, and was surprised to see the vague shape of tree roots where before there had been only fog. In the eerie light he perceived himself to be at the center of an invisible dome, outside of which the mist roiled. It would have been laughable, the puzzlement with which a long coil of darkness extended from the core, to touch the dome questioningly._

_The boy stiffened at the contact. It was as if the fiend was touching some part of his essence, and he hated it passionately. He'd make it sorry._

_The air inside the dome was hot. The wraith recoiled, only to discover that the shield was growing to push it away. The spirit was not quick enough and, as the dome pressed outward, Izark thought he glimpsed a strange face pushed against the barrier, a face veiled in shadow and twisted by fear and resentment, because it had recognized one stronger than itself._

_The spirit fled, gliding quickly up the path, its fellows appearing from the other side of the road and, sensing the shield, also fleeing. Somehow, the boy had survived. But here was another difference; here as another power that would ostracize him from human beings. Here was another strength that would undoubtedly cause injury where he had intended none, and would spread fear instead of acceptance. Here was another token of his doom. The child stayed in the grove for the rest of the night, trembling for fear and fighting back tears._

"So there you are." he told her, his voice ironically devoid of triumph. "I got the hang of using my energy as a shield, and eventually I didn't need to worry about the spirits because they're worried about me. I'm a monster that even monsters fear. But," the warrior turned his gaze way from the fire and back to Noriko's dear, open face, which at that moment held an expression that utterly rejected his last statement. "But even when I lost control in Selena Guzena, I recognized you. I remembered what you meant to me as soon as I saw you," he whispered as he leaned in, "and I knew that I would never hurt you, no matter what I was or became. That I could stay with you," he breathed against her lips, "and protect you, even from myself. So don't –"

He never finished. Noriko cut him off, lacing her fingers around the back of his head and kissing him. Izark took it as a sign of agreement, and let himself drowned in the soft warmth of her mouth.

Suffice to say they were both blushing when they found it necessary to come up for air. For a time Izark went back to contemplating the fire while Noriko rested her head against his shoulder. Finally she said, "Izark? Do you mind if I write that story down?"

The young man thought about it before answering. "Go ahead," he encouraged her. Then, sternly, "But not tonight. You should be asleep. No" he said, and stopped her from getting up, "stay right here. It's SylphMoon, remember? You need to stay inside the shield."

Noriko made a face at him before snuggling her head back into his shoulder. Within minutes her breathing became slow and rhythmic. When he was certain she slept, Izark tightened his grip on her waist and stood up. Supporting her with one arm, the warrior carefully maneuvered over to their meager supply of wood, then returned and placed a piece on the fire, but not before hissing, "Try that again, and I'll make sure the next stick is so wet it steams. I can keep her warm if need be."

He wasn't at all surprised when the fire hissed back.

_No chance of any fun this year, I see_ , it sizzled glumly. _It really isn't fair. We fire spirits always end up getting caught. We can't even give people bad dreams without being threatened with wet._

Izark smiled. "Look at it this way," he suggested quietly. "You got my attention, not to mention hers. Isn't that the whole idea of the mischief making?" Then an idea occurred to him. "I can hear you," he murmured. "I take it you have an exceptional amount of energy."

_But of course,_ came the reply, along with a smug little pop.

"Well, it's wasted on Noriko and me," he retorted as he carried her back to the place where they had been sitting. He sat down carefully, then eased back until he lay flat on the ground with her head on his chest and his arms around her. "And I meant what I said about the next stick. She needs her rest. Don't try anything."


	7. Barentaindē: A St. Valentine’s Day Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A valentine for the Kanata Kara fandom. Takes place in Volume 12, between the Brunei Brothers conflict and the journey to Ennamarna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should pop up as a Market Day chapter on FFN someday soon--I'm having a little trouble getting into contact with my beta-reader. Please let me know if you find any errors—linguistic, cultural, or other. Also, let me know if the stream-of-consciousness type run-ons are too much.
> 
> Hai, dōzo:

_Takes place in Volume 12, between the Brunei Brothers conflict and the journey to Ennamarna._

They were inspecting the mattress of the second safe house since Stenny (a/n: the Bazaar Town) when Noriko had a brainwave. Not the kind of sudden thought that came to her in the middle of reaping a field, which started small and grew, requiring that it be pondered over and examined at length. No, this was the sort of idea that came all at once, fully formed and requiring immediate, tangible verification.

While making sure the right side seam was free of any residues that would indicate small crawly residents, Izark wondered when his mind had decided that Noriko dropping everything to riffle through her new ‘diary’ meant the latter kind of brainwave in the same way that danger was related to, say, a house fire.

And since when did the thought of house fires _not_ reduce him to a fetal ball of impotent guilt and sorrow?

He had started on the foot-end seam when the young woman glanced up at him over her writings, that imperative look in her eyes. “Izark? How many full moons do you—how many full moons are there in a year?” She managed to ask quietly, having a care for the safety of their hosts—maybe the entire town, depending on how vindictive the Bonya Clan turned out to be. Judging by their treatment of Dr. Clairgeeta and many of his colleagues, ‘how’ was _cruelly and unusually._

Had she really been about to say, ‘ _How many full moons do you get in a year?’_ First she’d tested his ideas of what _did_ and did _not_ constitute essential knowledge of how to get by from day to day. _Then_ she’d proven a rather unreasonable amount of affection for a man fated to become a monster. Now _this_. Just how many of the constants in his life was she going to challenge?

It was enough to make him drop the mattress, because the question was much more complicated than it first appeared. For starters, there was some play in the definition of a _year._ The Torakhan calendar was the one he’d been raised with, but he knew there were other systems. For example, Parachina and other countries west of Zago operated on a purely lunar calendar—a hold-over from the ancient Donyan campaigns. The rumors went that those cultures employed seers for the sole purpose of reconciling their _months_ to their _years_ to their _seasons_. “If you mean how many moon cycles come about in one _sun cycle,_ then…” He frowned. The names of the months never seemed the same from place to place, but the ones he grew up with… _Smoke Moon, Hunt Moon, Dark, Ice, Sleep, Thaw, Song, Milk, Fruit, Storm, Sylph, Sickle, Bread…_ “Thirteen, give or take one. …Is that—the same? Or—” _Different?_

Noriko chewed her lip, then tilted her head from side to side. “Not quite, but close. The length of seasons matches up pretty well, though.  …We— _are_ working with _four seasons_ …right?”

“Yes.” He answered, because for a moment she’d sounded so lost that he didn’t have the heart to tell her how the astrologers occasionally declared an extra ‘season’ (one of the extra moons, really, but it was what it was) for a few festivals they couldn’t fit into the annual schedule. The month before she, erm, _arrived_ had been one such ‘season’. Because—you know. _Portents_ and _Ill Omens._

She let out a sort of relieved huff. “ _Ohh._ Okay.” Then she sifted the sheaf of parchment that constituted her journal to the most recent page, set out her inking tools, and started scribbling.

Izark finished checking his two seams of their mattress for the night and started on the two Noriko had abandoned in favor of reconciling her current reality to her previous one.

 

Supper was the late, hushed situation of these anti-Bonya safe houses, a simple hearty bread with vegetables and a little meat for the presiding family’s meal, cooked in covertly _large_ quantities and delivered to the small _well-shuttered_ ‘storage rooms’ on the sly. Izark doubted that the children of the house had been let in on the secret, because he doubted they would play _quite_ so loudly in the corridor outside if they knew there were strangers camped behind those perpetually locked doors. Thankfully, the beleaguered sounding woman who had made the fugitives welcome managed to hustle the little ones back into bed (from whence they had escaped) so he could relight the lantern before he and Noriko bedded down for the night.

Noriko had been— _thoughtful_ during the meal, rather than quiet for quiet’s sake. Now as space and stillness stretched between them and their hosts, she turned over onto her side to face him. He looked back at her for the moment it took her to frame what she wanted to convey.

“You know, it’s been over a year.”

_Has it?_ The black-haired warrior was almost surprised. But yes—they fled the Sea of Trees at the end of Dark Moon. Their second Ice Moon together had come and gone as they sidled through Aibisk alongside one, then _two_ other groups of fugitives, and the Sleep Moon had been halfway to full last night.

That suddenly struck him as _odd._ The last year had been so _full,_ somehow both painfully fast and yet rich with memorable, new things—battles that had an actual _point_ , semi-coherent chatter and lessons, grief and joy and fear, _allies,_ warmth, _catastrophe_ , a kiss and _Oh no is  that_ _what this is?_ And then more grief, and longing. Rage and wonder and more warmth, more fear, another kiss. Hiding with an actual _point._ Agony and discovery and a new friend, work and peace, maybe just _one_ more kiss, well okay _two_ , panic and _more_ friends—made the cramped time feel wide and deep as the sky.

Whereas the year before, and the one before that, and the four years between _home_ and _Gaya_ had seemed an interminable, narrow slog towards doom.

Was that—the former way—how normal people had always lived? But then again, Izark was beginning to realize, what constituted _normal_? Gaya was not normal—though if Katarina was anything to go by then she very well might be normal _for a_ _Gray Bird woman_. Duke Jeida was an extremely high ranking, politically active noble with his family and vassals along for the ride. Agol, Geena and Barago were more or less normal, he supposed—except that Geena was a tremendously young _and_ talented seer, and Agol was just so damn _capable._ Izark had already figured Barago was a touch insane, but he hadn’t expected him to be nuts enough to actually _fight for_ and then _run away_ with them.

Doros—he had been a little like Izark, always trying to be something more _acceptable_ , stuttering on the insecurity of a few superficial differences yet blind to the differences that _made_ him acceptable _._

The Aibiskan farmers then—were _they_ normal? Yet every day with those villagers had seen another field with its own unique challenges, another family with a new baby (usually not human, although there _had_ been a couple of those), another crop to harvest and store, a new well to be dug, another tool to fix, something new to eat, another fence to mend, a new reason to lean into warm breath and soft lips, yet _another_ wild theory about the mysterious couple at Kada’s house (none of them quite as strange as the _truth)_ …

And _Noriko—_ he’d thought she was ordinary when he found her— _everyone_ seemed to think that when they first met her.

But she wasn’t. In a world where people could be so _intensely_ cruel and exclusive, her kindness and openness had been even more singular in its way than Gaya’s.

Gaya was _strong_ —she could afford to give, and to trust, and to charge into danger. That was her normal.

Noriko had trusted, whether she could afford to or not. She had given, consequences be damned, and charged _despite_ the danger. That was _her_ normal.

And she was still watching him.

He nodded. “It’s been over a year. And?”

“And I have _no_ idea what to make in place of _chokor_ _ēto_ *.”

“…I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

A pause, then Noriko all but stuffed a fist in her mouth to muffle the giggles. Izark chuckled.

_“Heee!”_ she gasped. “I actually know what that means now.” When she had composed herself, she reached for his hand and explained softly, “In Japan, we have a festival in late winter, _Barentaind_ _ē_ *. It’s a [Western] festival, just like _Kurisumasu_ *--it really annoys Ojī-chan—I mean my grandpa. Not so much because it’s _[western]_ as because of how we’ve changed it to be more Japanese, you know? Anyway, it is a day for women and girls to give presents of _chokor_ _ēto_ —a kind of candy _—_ to the people around us. Especially—” she paused, running her thumb over the back of his hand, then finished shyly, “to our lover, or to confess to someone we love.”

He was blushing. He knew he was blushing. He was also smiling like a fool, which would have been embarrassing if others were present. But him smiling always seemed to make Noriko smile, so he didn’t fight it.

“I see,” Izark said when he finally found his voice. “And what would be…a proper response to receiving— _chokorete?”_

“ _R_ _ē-to.”_ she corrected. _“_ There’s another festival in the middle of the next month, _Howaitod_ _ē_ *. The men who received gifts on _Barentaind_ _ē_ give gifts in return—or not.”

“ _Or not?_ That seems unfair.”

Her responding hum was noncommittal. “It’s like a code, I guess— we have a lot of those, especially for gifts. _Barentaind_ _ē_ has a code, too— _giri-choko_ for acquaintances, _tomo-choko_ for friends, and homemade _honmei-choko_ for loved ones. For _Howaitod_ _ē_ , not giving a return gift means he thinks he’s too good for her, which _is_ rude, isn’t it? A return gift of equal value says something like ‘thank you, but this is just a courtesy’—which is fine for _giri-choko_ , but for a couple it means he’s ending it with her. And something twice or three times as valuable is a full reci—recipro—returns the same feelings.”

“Reciprocation,” Izark provided in correction to her stumble. “Why twice or three times more, though?”

Noriko shrugged with her free shoulder. “Men are paid more than women, even for the same work. Or something like that.”

Izark considered their joined hands—more specifically, the pattern she kept tracing and retracing on the back of his. It was rather like a hook, then another mirroring the first. “And it has to be— _choker_ _ētu?_ For both days? _”_

“ _Cho-ko-r_ _ē-to._ Not really—that’s just traditional. Flowers, some other sweet—except no _mashumaro*_ on _Howaitod_ _ē_ , don’t ask me why _—_ games, poetry, jokes. Jewelry, clothes—nice stuff.”

“Huh. Then, how do you make— _choko…r_ _ē…to?”_

_“Hai,_ you’ve got it. That’s just the thing. The main ingredient are these super bitter seeds called _kakao._ They have to be—well, _rotted_ —then dried, cleaned and roasted. After that they’re ground up and cooked, and _then_ they have to be processed to separate the fat from the pulp. After that, it can finally be remixed and sweetened. Sweeter _chokor_ _ēto_ might have milk in it. The whole process is really delicate, plus the _kakaonoki—_ sorry, _kakao_ trees only grow in hot humid regions. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

“…Yeah, but—for dyes, or medicines, or _soap_ —nothing you’d ever go out of your way to _eat._ ”

“It’s actually very tasty. High energy, too. A teensy bit medicinal, even.”

“A complete luxury, then.”

“Mmhmm, that’s about right.” It was her turn to look down at their hands, where Izark had started drawing _the pattern_ on her wrist with his free hand. Her cheeks began to flush—so it _did_ mean something, after all. _Hah._ “And it’s—um, completely beyond my ability to make—at least from the very start. So, ah—the next time I have access to a kitchen, is there something—something y-you’d want that I _can_ make?”

Izark considered, his thumb going still against her wrist. “Something normal.”

“Huh?”

“ _Chokor_ _ēto_ is rare and difficult, even there,” he explained. “But something normal—something you ate every day, made with simple things—I’m sure we could find substitutes.” He huffed quietly—a small laugh. “I just—I want to see your normal.”

He wasn’t sure who leaned in first.

All Izark knew was that the sweet face filling his field of vision was close enough to touch, but his hands were still bound up with hers so he used his mouth instead. After that there seemed no good reason to think about _anything_ except the way his nose pressed against her cheek or how her lips were moving against his—warm and moist and oh-so willing—or the heat _that_ caused gathering low in his pelvis—

“…They didn’t fall asleep, did they?” Niana’s whisper travelled through the wall directly behind them, making Noriko gasp and jerk back.

“ _You know_ , Mom, this is just a guess, but if you can hear them, _they_ can probably hear _you, too,”_ Glocia hissed.

“Both of you, _hush_.” That was Katarina, who had jumped at the chance to room with the Gillenee women rather than mince around the sensibilities of her male allies, who were three to a room now as it was. “Izark, Noriko? Sorry about that,” she said in a tone that was totally unapologetic. “Oh, but I wanted to say, I’m sure I can get you some time in the scullery when we get to the Revna Estate, if you all want to take a few days’ rest there.”

Noriko cleared her throat awkwardly, interrupting the stream of vengeful thoughts flowing through Izark’s mind. “ _T-thank you,_ Katarina. Let’s talk about that tomorrow.” Then she muttered, with a finality that her lover’s trained ear recognized as being as close to scathing as she would ever come, “Good _night.”_

A trio of contrite murmurs came from the wall. Izark sighed, letting his resentment go with the breath.

He breathed in again fast when Noriko’s free hand shot out to grip the front of his shirt, then proceeded to pull him closer. _Put out the lamp,_ her voice sounded resolutely in his mind. _The door is locked on both sides, and they can’t. prove. Anything._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chokorēto—chocolate J
> 
> Barentaindē—St. Valentine’s Day
> 
> Kurisumasu—Christmas
> 
> Howaitodē—White Day
> 
> mashumaro—marshmallow J
> 
> The Gray Birds did end up getting them a free pass to the small overflow kitchen (the scullery) in the wealthy House (Revna) that sheltered Dr. Clairgeeta. While there, Noriko set about trying to use the grain commonly grown in Aibisk (the one that reminded her of rice) to make plain onigiri—this was more or less a success, though she had to fiddle with the proportions of water to grain to get the right consistency. She eventually got sidetracked by the ‘dung salt’, a.k.a. saltpeter (used in food preservation since the Middle Ages), and she and Izark spent the rest of their time inventing the smoke bombs Izark later used to great effect in Vol. 12 (this made me seriously question Noriko’s upbringing, though XD. Just kidding. I suspect her father did some research for a novel once, and she remembered the basic mechanics. Noriko’s eclectic like that…) Wei proved to be a wealth of knowledge concerning which common kitchen ingredients would and would not blow up XD.
> 
> Izark impresses me as being somewhat—pragmatic in what he chooses to think about. As a child, his brain space was taken up not by 'I wonder why the sky is blue', but with 'Why is my mother screaming and how do I get her to stop Oh getting closer does not help Back up back up Closer does not help I do not help.' He had enough immediate questions like 'Why did that wet stick burst into flame when I touched it that is not normal Oh Crap did somebody see How did that happen Did I do it How do I keep that from happening again' that he didn’t have much time left for 'So what’s the deal with winter, anyway?' Or 'Which came first, the Roc Bird or the egg?' (This behavior is sometimes called ‘covering’, in which a person expends their creative energy in controlling or disguising personal traits that others and/or they themselves view as flaws, leaving a good deal less energy for work and play and other things that make life great.) Really, he had enough questions lacking satisfactory answers that he never really questioned the stuff that was more or less predictable and accepted as the norm.
> 
> Whereas Noriko isn’t nearly as crazy as incurious people like her friends seem to think—she investigates and absorbs abstract concepts, language, and other ideas—and more importantly, retains them. The physics of mirages? 'Hmm, could Izark pull that off?' Parallel Universe Theory? 'They haven’t disproved it yet—ummm, actually, you know what, I kind of proved it.' The likely formulation of ninja smoke bombs? 'May we borrow your kitchen? We’re experimenting with semi-mythical stealth weapons.' The basic process of cocoa production? 'Who cares if the likelihood of me ever being in a position to make it myself is exactly zero? It’s interesting!'

**Author's Note:**

> 'Tsubaki' is the Japanese name for the camellia plant. Camellias are in the same genus as the tea plant, but this usually refers to either the tea blossoms (used in white tea) or to the three best known ornamental varieties. Cultivated varieties of the common camellia, Camellia japonica, have many overlapping petals and come in the full range from white through pink to red (the tree Noriko and Izark find is a red camellia. The leaves are four inches long, dark green, and glossy. Though broad leaved, camellias are considered evergreens. Common Camellias can grow to be thirty feet tall.  
> Yes, I used to ride fairly frequently, so I know how to tack up. I found including the process in this story quite enjoyable. My family's mare, Sparkle, is a chestnut Arabian- Quarter Horse cross. Since her back is a little narrow, we use a breast plate to keep the saddle from sliding backward.


End file.
